


put your hands together (and hope)

by SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Noncanon Meteorstuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sickfic, Stabbing, Uneasy Allies, Weird God-Tier Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/SpoonerizeSwiftness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't like this mysterious Gamzee guy.  You're pretty sure saying he "doesn't like" you would be the understatement of the sweep, whatever bullshit measurement of time a sweep is.  But Karkat's sick, and nobody really asked what you two like or don't like.  </p><p>Time to suck it up and stab somebody.  Nicely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your hands together (and hope)

**Author's Note:**

> Man I started this thing like YEARS AGO and I just found it in my files again and finished it up. Because I wanted to write sickfic and Dave not understanding moirallegiance and Dave not understanding Gamzee's religion and basically Dave not understanding. Doesn't feel finished but then again my fics never do. Endings are my weakest point. U///U
> 
> Also I had the idea for his sword's name/powers and it wouldn't leave me alone, so there's that.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are not happy about juggalo clown bullshit.

Specifically, you are not happy about this juggalo freak, Gamzee Makara. 

You hear you shouldn’t have sent him that link to the music video.  That he’s actually not just a juggalo, he actually _worships_ those guys, or at least his universe’s version.  Some kind of horrible, insane clowns. You may have actually driven him nuts?  And then he went and killed a bunch of other trolls, and he’s absconded with their bodies.  And he thinks he’s his own gods.  And if you see him, apparently, you should get the fuck out.

Who the fuck worships clowns?

That’s the part that really rubs you the wrong way, for some reason; he believes there are clowns gods and maybe that he’s actually both of them and how does that even make any sense?  Okay, right, you have to admit, part of _that_ part of the reason you don’t like it is because it’s basically just an excuse to be a crazy-ass murderer.  You’ve never seen a single sign of him actually worshipping them except for the fact that he paints his face like some kind of psycho-clown who’s developed a taste for blood.  Which, basically, he is. 

You keep a sharp ear out for honking noises, and you try not to think about that one pesterlog you just barely remember— _it’s all your fault._

You keep a sword with you whenever you’re in the dark, and you don’t blink at the shadows.

You’re not the only one staying up at night and not blinking at shadows.  You’re also not the first one to exhaust your nervous system completely and come down with something.  It’s not even Karkat, master of stressing out over every stupid, tiny detail. 

Terezi is the first one to come down with something.

Fortunately as soon as the cold plugs up her nose she starts spending days lying around in bed moaning about being blind and how much things suck, so she gets plenty of rest and she snaps out of it pretty quick.  You get the same thing—a stuffed up nose, then a sore throat, then a kind of wheezy cough—but it’s a lot better for you.  Which is weird, and kind of a let-down, because as soon as Terezi got sick everyone was panicking thinking it was going to be one of those War of the Worlds alien death diseases and all the humans were going to start choking and dying.  So it works its way through you, then to Rose, who adds a pounding headache to the mix and passes it to Kanaya, who is kind of feverish through the whole thing, and then Terezi gets it _again_ and has all of the above plus an even worse cough than last time and a fever that needs ice.  And you’re pretty tired of playing hot potato with alien germs by the time you hear one of those tiny honking noises far off and then something that sounds an awful lot like a hacking cough. 

Even the ghostly murder clown is getting into it.  This is some serious shit.

It’s not Karkat who gets it first, but it’s Karkat who gets it last.  And it’s Karkat who gets it _worst._

Terezi notices he’s coming down with something before you can hardly even tell by looking at him, and it’s a good thing because if he had had the chance to run himself into the ground like you’re pretty damn sure he would have otherwise…you’re pretty sure it would have killed him.  It almost kills him anyway.  You get him onto a mattress (really a big pillow, thank god for Rose’s serendipitous captchalogues forever ago) and you get him cooled down and you get him water and he still drops like a toddler getting plowed by a linebacker. 

And he doesn’t bounce back.  And he doesn’t bounce back.  And he doesn’t bounce back he just _lies_ there and wheezes and sweats and bleeds bright red from his nose and his cracked lips, and none of you have the slightest fucking clue what to do.  Terezi is freaking the fuck out, but she won’t tell you about it.  Kanaya spends all day with him until she falls asleep next to him, Rose buries herself in alchemy, trying to figure out—fuck, you don’t know, aspirin or something, something to _help_ at least.  But he’s getting weaker, fast, and you don’t have time to wait, and you don’t have time to sit and worry.  It’s time to take matters into your own hands.

You wait for a time when Rose has gathered Kanaya up from Karkat’s bedside, helped her off to go spoon and drink each others blood or apply lipstick or whatever it is they do with each other, and then you slip down the hallway to his room.  Your future self will go and distract Terezi.  You’ve decided to do it, so now it’s done.  You feel like a piece of shit, going behind everyone’s backs like this, but none of the others will agree to this plan even though you know, as sure as you’ve ever fucking been, that this is the only way you can go now.  It’s fucked up.  It’s gonna suck.  But if you don’t do this, he’s going to die.

You steel yourself (what, steel yourself?  No, shit, dude, you’re a Strider.  You’re _made_ of steel) walk through the door and stop dead in your tracks, because the murderclown is sitting on Karkat’s hastily-alchemized mattress with him.

You immediately duck back into the shadows and go for your sword—he wasn’t there thirty seconds ago when Kanaya and Rose came through and this hallway has the only door, he must have come in through the vents.  Shit, _shit_ , Karkat can’t fight right now, now would be the perfect time to finish him off so he can’t do his magic shooshing thing again.  Doesn’t look like he’s noticed you.  You edge forward towards the corner and peer around it, expecting some kind of creepy ritual murder or some shit…

…but now that you get a better look, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything.  Nothing bad, anyway.  He’s just sitting there, holding Karkat half in his lap with his head nestled in the crook of one scrawny, blood-stained shoulder.  And he’s talking. 

Wait no.  He’s not just talking.

He’s praying.

He’s praying like he’s desperate, like the little kid who prays every night even though they don’t know why, like he’s not even really aware that he’s doing it.  He’s rocking slowly forward and back, forward and back, and his voice is a cracking little whisper,  a pleading sob.  _“Breathe, brother, you have to motherfucking_ breathe— _messiahs he ain’t ready to go yet, I’m beggin’ you, if you_ ever _heard me—just turn him away,_ please _, c’mon bro, don’t you all up and leave me now…”_

Karkat makes a weak little sound and grinds in a breath; rattles it back out again, shuddering in his moirail’s arms, and Gamzee wraps himself around that scrawny, bony body and buries his face in Karkat’s hair. 

“ _I dunno what to motherfuckin’ do,_ ” he mumbles, and he flinches as the tightening of his grip makes Karkat whine, barely conscious.  “Sorry, brother!  Sorry—” and then, soft and desperate, “ _—please, please, please_ …”

You know he’s insane.  You know he’s shithive maggots and he’s murdered trolls for the simple crime of getting in his way, and that he could tip over at any time.  But he really, honestly doesn’t know what to do and right at this particular moment you want the same thing.  You don’t want Karkat to die.

( _How many times have you almost flipped out, stepping over another copy of your corpse, kneeling over Bro’s body_

You captchalogue your sword and step forward and Gamzee glances up at you and _snarls,_ long and low and feral, baring his fangs.  His face is streaked with violet tears, and he huddles defensively around Karkat’s body. 

“I come in peace, man,” you say softly, and hold up your hands, open-palmed and non-threatening.  “I’m here to help him.  Okay?  I just want to help him.”

“ _Get the fuck out_ ,” growls Gamzee, and the yellow of his eyes looks almost red in the shadows of his wild hair.  “ _Leave us the_ MOTHERFUCK ALONE!”

“Your creepy clown prayers won’t help him right now,” you say evenly.  “He’s gonna die.’

“I WON’T LET HIM!”  Gamzee lurches forward like he wants to go for your throat, but Karkat is clinging weakly to his arms and he looks down and subsides back, his face twisting for a second in pain.  “I won’t let him,” he says again, but that lost sound has come back to his voice and the fight seems to go out of him.  “…he can’t.  It ain’t _right_.”

“What you _want_ doesn’t matter when somebody is dying,” you say, because yeah okay, you know how that feels, you remember feeling like you didn’t know what to do or where to go, you remember the thought _he can’t, this can’t be happening, this is_ wrong… “He’s got a human disease, man, if you don’t let anyone in here to help him—”

“ _Your fault,_ ” Gamzee mumbles, and he wipes one bony wrist across his moirail’s forehead, stroking his cheekbone with one knobbly-knuckled thumb.  “ _Motherfuckin’ humans…_ ”

“ _Listen_ , asshole, do you want him to _live_?”

Gamzee makes a tiny soft sound of anger and his fingers twitch; his other hand squeezes Karkat’s arm.  Karkat shifts a little and leans into the hand resting on his cheek, making a little groaning sound that might be the very beginning of his moirail’s name.  

The wavering tension of madness in Gamzee’s eyes vanishes for a moment into a look of unbelievable tenderness that makes your gut twist up with embarrassment to see. ( _Shooosh brother, breathe for me, don’t you give up now…)_ You’ve had pale romance explained to you, but that doesn’t make it less weird.  (Rose would tell you how culturally insensitive you’re being, but you can’t really help it.)

“You think…you can all motherfucking fix him up?” He says, and the words sound like they physically pain him to say to you.  He doesn’t look up at you, just stares down at Karkat.  “If you got any manner of intention to do him some wicked ill—”

“Settle down,” you say, and reach out, resting a hand on Karkat’s shaking shoulder.  He’s so hot your fingers ache.  “Not gonna hurt him, see?  It’s okay.  I’ve got time powers, I can help.”

He doesn’t make a sound; he just watches.

“I use swordkind,” you say, calm and easy.  “I made a sword a while ago called ‘Time Heals All’.  I can fix him, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“ _Why_?” he growls—he’s almost physically vibrating being this close to you, you can _feel_ how much he wants to kill you. Moment of truth time.  Your palms are sweaty; your fingers twitch.

“…because to heal him with it I’ll have to stab him with it,” you say calmly, and then there’s a flicker of movement and the broken hilt of your sword locks onto one of his stinking, bloodstained clubs.  He wasn’t pulling any punches; if that had hit you, it would have snapped your neck like a dry piece of wood.  You wouldn’t be permanently dead, but you don’t like the idea of him having you paralyzed at _all_.  Christ, he’s so fucking strong.  His reach is ungodly long, too—longer than Bro’s even, and if he’s slower than Bro was, it’s only by a step.

That speed saves you, because he’s still holding Karkat propped in the crook of one arm and people that sick aren’t meant to move at speed anything like Bro’s.  Karkat jerked awkwardly to one side when Gamzee flickered to his feet, and now he’s groping around for something to hold on to.  His lungs are doing this nasty, wet, bubbly thing that you can hear from all the way over here and you doubt he can even see with his eyes as swollen as they are, but he tries to stand anyway (lousy goddamned Karkat Vantas and his lousy goddamned stubbornness when he’s barely even alive).  Gamzee doesn’t even bother to recaptchalogue his club; he drops it like he doesn’t even care and catches Karkat in both arms as he starts to fall, half picking him up and settling them back down onto the bed. 

“I’ve used it before,” you say, talking fast while the clown is still preoccupied making sure Karkat is still breathing.  “On myself.  I can show you, if you aren’t gonna go psycho over my blood or anything.”

“No,” he mutters, and one thumb strokes the delicate skin under one of Karkat’s sunken eyes; the red under the skin is clearer than ever.  “Not red-as-miracles.  Not like what you up and stole from my brother most pale.”

You don’t bother to argue that you didn’t steal anything, you were just born that way.  Instead, you raise your broken sword and cut a long gash on one of your arms.  Gamzee watches, eyes narrowed and teeth slightly bared, but doesn’t go for your throat, which you’re pretty sure is a good sign.  The cut is a long streak of fire and your muscles want to tense, your teeth want to chatter, but you keep your face blank and stay relaxed.  You draw Time Heals All; it’s simple and dangerous-looking with a blade that’s weirdly dark and red, and it’s more of a knife than a sword.  You’re lucky your specibus accepts it. 

Hold out your bleeding arm, don’t flinch, plunge the blade down—

That hurts like hell, but you breathe slowly and let the blade sit, let the time that’s ticking away inside of you settle into your body through the blade.  This wound is small; it takes less than thirty seconds before a little jolt of awareness runs through your arm and straight through your brain.  You slide the blade out, wincing, and hold out your arm so that Gamzee can see both of your fresh wounds heal smoothly shut.

He watches impassively, his eyes flickering across your face, and you get the distinct, slightly freaky impression that there’s a lot more going on behind those purple-grey eyes than he’s showing, but hey.  You’re a Strider.  You know all about hiding emotions.

“Well?”  You press, after a long, long silence.  Karkat’s wheezing seems to be getting quieter, but that’s not because he’s wheezing less; his shoulders barely rise and fall anymore.  He’s drifting off, and as cool as you try to be about this that goddamn clown is just _staring_ at you and you can almost feel the clock in your chest ticking Karkat’s life away.  “He hasn’t got much longer.”

Gamzee holds your eyes for another second, and then, wordlessly, he raises a hand to his mouth—

“Fuck!” You exclaim before you can stop yourself, because what kind of crazy freak is he and _shit_ that’s a lot of blood—and Gamzee spits out a chunk of gray-purple flesh and holds out a mangled hand to you.

You think you get what he’s trying to do, in the aftermath of the instant disgust and…okay, horror, that was pretty horrifying, the way he just tore into himself like that.  Sue you.  But it’s true, you’ve never tested this thing on anyone but yourself, and even then only a few times, when you weren’t instantly killed or kissed back to life by someone.  You take a step forward, keep your eyes fixed on him, draw back an arm and stab the blade right through the palm of his hand.

You can tell instantly that this is going to be different from healing yourself.  He doesn’t flinch or make a sound, but his pupils shrink to pinpricks and a muscle in his jaw tightens like he’s having to force himself to be silent.  You can _feel_ him resisting; the time isn’t inside him like it is inside you, you have to push your time into him and all there is inside him is something dark and bottomless and _so_ _motherfucking angry_ —

You come back and realize that you’re down on one knee, one hand reached out to balance yourself on the edge of the bed.  There’s a ringing in your ears; either you or Gamzee just yelled, although you’re fucked if you know who it was.  Maybe both.  His face is pretty pale under all his smeary greasepaint, and his hand is shaking so hard you have to reach out and grab him by the wrist to pull the sword slowly free.  Your head is pounding, and he’s bitten a hole in his lip, but the torn-up mess on his hand heals shut.

“See?”  You manage, and your voice is only shaking a little bit, which is pretty damn impressive in your opinion.  “Fuck, did you have to fight me like that?”

Gamzee doesn’t dignify that with an answer. 

“Whatever,” you say, and you look down on Karkat and know what you’re going to have to do.  Gotta be calm about this, Strider, in control.  “…I’m going to have to do this a little bit at a time.  You know this is going to be really goddamn bad, right?”

His grip on Karkat tightens, but he gives a tiny twitch of the head that might be a nod.  You nod back, and gesture to the bed. 

“Lay him out.”

He doesn’t want to let go, that much is clear.  He doesn’t want to let you do this at all—whether that’s because he still doesn’t trust you not to kill Karkat or because he doesn’t want him to feel whatever he just felt there’s no way of knowing.  Probably both. You don’t want to feel what you just felt either; your head feels all full of screaming, and as stupid and dramatic as that sounds it is 100% accurate. 

“I have to fix his throat first,” you say, because it’s that or just jump right into it and you don’t want the crazy murder-clown to go crazy murder-clown on you.  “Then his right lung, then his left one.  Might have to get his heart too.  You ready for this?”

He doesn’t answer you, just reaches down and leans over the tiny, shaking figure on the bed and fuck if he doesn’t kiss him on the forehead. 

 _“You’re gonna be alright,_ ” he murmurs, real low, and he drops one hand, still smeared up with his blood, and draws a little, tiny diamond right between Karkat’s collarbones.  “ _Promise._ ”

Then he looks up at you and all the happy nice clown goes right out of him.  “Get the FUCK on with it,” he says, and he moves to one side.  You climb up there instead, and line the sword up.  You want to make this neat.  Karkat’s an ass, he’s a complete douchebag a lot of the time and you’re mad at him pretty much every time you talk to him, but he’s a pretty good guy under all the assholery and you’re not going to make this harder on him than it needs to be.  You pull back an arm…

You’ve seen someone die of a slit throat before, but you’ve never had to do it yourself like this, never to a friend.  Karkat makes the most horrible noise as the blade goes through his windpipe, and he’s clawing at your arms as you grit your teeth and hold it there, human-red blood all over your hands.  There’s no deep well of rage inside him, but there’s a pounding rush and the smell, taste, feeling of blood is everywhere, and you think you can hear Gamzee praying again in the distance, _please, please, let him stay, give him back, I motherfucking need him,_ and Karkat’s noises of panic and pain are nothing but garbled bubbling and the blood doesn’t want to change with time, _the blood is constant, petty time can’t touch—_

You pull the blade free and Karkat coughs and chokes and then subsides, gasping.  He still makes that bubbling sound from deep in his chest, but he’s not wheezing; his throat isn’t swelled shut anymore.  The hole in his neck heals as though it was never there, but the blood stays, on your hands and splattered up your arms, blending with your god-tier outfit’s bright red sleeves.

“ _Mother_ fuck,” rasps Gamzee, and for a second you can’t even think of him as dangerous.  There’s just _the blood, the blood, the blood,_ you can feel it pounding in all three of you, connecting you—

You shake your head and the feeling is gone.  You can’t even remember quite what it felt like; blood is not your thing, you remind yourself—but damn, it sticks in your head.  For a few seconds that internal clock feels less like ticking gears and more like a pounding heart, until you bite your tongue hard and jolt yourself out of it and you’re ticking along again. 

Karkat half-opens one eye, and for a second it looks like he’s waking up.  But he’s not looking at anywhere or anything, just staring off into the distance, and a second later he just slumps back and closes his eyes again.  He started crying at some point—or are his eyes watering? There are thin streaks of red on his unconscious face.

“Two more,” you say, almost as much to reassure yourself as to calm the crazy murderous clown looking over your shoulder.  You can see his long, pale, cool-grey fingers wound through Karkat’s out of the corner of your eye, and you wonder for a second if he can do the ragey thing?  If anyone could turn rage into power even when it isn’t their aspect, it’s Karkat.

…maybe making him angry when he’s almost conscious and you’re holding a sword to his throat isn’t a good idea.  You shake the thought off, take a deep breath and plunge the blade home.

It’s easier the second time.  Your power ticks inside of you; Gamzee’s rejection of you was like a silently howling storm, but Karkat is unconscious and Blood, you’re starting to realize, just wants to circulate and unify.  You just kind of relax and hope, and Karkat is choking and shuddering in pain—he’s got a fucking _sword_ through his lung, that’s not really a surprise—but it’s nothing like as bad as it was.  It only takes a minute or two before you can pull the blade out, and Karkat takes a real, big, deep breath as soon as it’s gone.  He looks a little bit better already; still feverish, sure, but he’s breathing now. 

You’re pulling back your sword again when he opens his swollen eyes and looks up at you.

This time you know he sees you because his eyes instantly open wide.  He scrambles backwards as far as he can, which isn’t real far, and stares from you to the sword to Gamzee to the blood all over you and makes a horrible choking sound that might almost be _what the fuck?!_ “Dude, calm down!”  You try to say over top of him, but he’s coughing and writhing and trying to hit you, you think, although he’s pretty weak and it’s hard to tell. 

Gamzee shoves you unceremoniously off the bed.  You slam hard into the ground and only manage to turn the motion into half of a clumsy roll—shit, you might have just strained your shoulder, something is twinging.  You come up with your sword ready, but Gamzee isn’t attacking.  You don’t even seem to register on his radar, he just leans over Karkat with his hands on either side of his face, presses their foreheads together and goes _shoooosh_.

You are about to get up cursing.  You have a few good ones lined up, and you are all set to full-on strife this guy if you have to—

…but you don’t, because it seems to be working.  The crazy clown is weirdly serene, just holding Karkat’s face with one hand, rubbing slow little circles over the place you stabbed with the other.  Karkat is visibly calming down, his chest heaving, his eyes watering—no, fuck, he’s definitely crying, shit.  That’s…kind of awkward, more awkward than stabbing someone in the lung, so you kind of shuffle around until you’re facing the other way and try not to look at anything.  But Striders don’t cover their ears, so you just have to kind of sit there and listen, and that’s almost even worse.

“ _It’s okay,”_ Gamzee keeps repeating, and Karkat is hyperventilating and cursing in turns, swearing and then making raspy wheezing noises and then swearing some more.  “Best friend, palemate of mine, _shoosh_.  Motherfuckin’ _shoosh_ , brother, you’re gonna be just fine, I’ve got you.  _I’ve got you_.”

“— _thought—_ ” Karkat rasps, and then chokes on whatever he was going to say and makes the most horrible noises, hacking and choking and gasping.  He’s still running on one lung.  You don’t know how you know it, but you have a feeling that the healing isn’t going to last unless you burn out the last of the sickness and finish the job…but in a state like this, Karkat isn’t going to take it well if you climb up on the bed with him and stab him in the lung.  You stay where you are. 

“You been sick,” Gamzee tells him, and Karkat makes a hoarse little barking kind of sound that might be a laugh?  It’s hard to tell.  Could just be him trying to hack out his bad lung. 

“ _Everyone—got—I had a dr—_ ” Karkat tries to say, and just barely succeeds.  Every word you wait, holding your breath for the coughing fit that seems sure to follow it.  “… _just—all of you—dust, just bones—_ fuck…”

Uh, shit.  That might have been you.  You hope briefly that you weren’t responsible for some kind of fever-inspired time-themed night terror, but you’re pretty sure you were.  You forced the timey thing and fucked up his brain.  Oops.

Hopefully that’s going to wear off.

You turn around, and Gamzee gives you another sharp look but he can’t do anything to you just for turning around to look, especially not with Karkat there.  Karkat settles down after another coughing fit, and finally collects himself enough to glare down at you as well, with watery swollen-up eyes. 

“…what—”

“He worked some wicked motherfucking work,” says Gamzee, and for a minute you think he’s going to try to turn you into the villain ( _bro he was sneaking up in here all trying to kill you, I threw him off, you okay?)_ before you hear the grudging snarl in his voice and realize that this time it’s a really unwilling compliment.  “Done tore the motherfucking sick right out of you, bro.  You okay?  Still full of hurt?”

“I—” Karkat takes a careful breath, and winces, but doesn’t start coughing again.  “…I can only…” oh shit, his eyes are going wide, he’s gonna freak out— “—one side of my—”

“I didn’t do both lungs yet,” you say, putting on your best blank face for this as he turns back to you.  “Your left…lung, or whatever you guys have…is still full of gross shit.”

“What…” Karkat mutters, and smears a hand across his throat; his entire front and most of the bed he’s lying on is bright red.  He stares at his sticky hand for a while, and then at you; you still have Time Heals All out.  He finds the hole in his shirt where your blade went through; wiggles a finger through it, feels the flesh underneath through the slick of blood, and then flops his head back down on the pillow.

“ _…more god-tier shit,_ ” he grumbles, and if he was feeling any better you would answer the rhetorical question, just to piss him off.  You let that one pass.  The last thing you need is for him to start coughing again.  He looks up at Gamzee, and his face is impressively blank.  Almost Strider blank.  “…you let him stab me?”

Gamzee obviously doesn’t know what the right answer is.  Hell, _you_ don’t know what the right answer is.  Is he upset Gamzee didn’t protect him from you while he was unconscious?  Maybe there’s some kind of moirail clause about letting people be stabbed…

“I let him test it out on me and it did a powerful job of work,” Gamzee says finally, reluctant but honest, “…knew you wouldn’t want me to get my paint on with his blood, but if he’d been of mind to end you, brother, you know I would have sent him after you.”

“You didn’t try to attack him?”

“No.”

Karkat reaches up one sticky hand and pats his hair, right between his horns, his arm waving groggily under its own weight.  Gamzee reaches out hastily and takes his wrist, steadying it and pressing up into his hand with this weird-ass smile you really don’t feel comfortable seeing.  “Good,” rasps Karkat, and takes a big, rattly, painful-sounding breath.  “—proud of you—you might have a brain in there—after all.  Help me up.”

“I’m gonna have to stab you on the other side as well,” you say, doing your best to sound like the idea doesn’t make your insides crawl a little bit now that he’s awake and looking at you.  “Otherwise it’s gonna come back, and it’ll be worse.  And you weren’t doing so hot before.  Actually, you’ll probably die instantly.”

“Don’t be such a wriggler, Strider,” he snaps back, and it’s absurdly cheering that he can snap at anybody.  It’s half-hearted, but nasty and bitchy and reassuring.  “You can stab me sitting up.”  Gamzee hooks a huge, long arm under him and you can tell it grates on Karkat’s nerves to be lifted as easily as he is, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be man-handled—troll-handled—up on the sticky, bloody pillow and leaned back against the headboard, his head kind of lolling around onto one shoulder.  He’s still pretty pale, and his face is covered in reddish sweat.  His breathing is starting to get worse again.  Time to finish the job.

It’s better, in some ways, now that he’s awake.  It’s not just you and the crazy clown, for one thing, and Gamzee seems a lot calmer just from the sight of Karkat awake and breathing.  He can tell Gamzee firmly, “—now get off the bed.” And nudge him off with one knee without fear of losing that leg.  He isn’t insane and delirious and dying anymore, and that’s good.

It starts to suck when you pull back your sword and he’s looking back at you.  You’re cool, unaffected—but you still catch on the motion, just for a second.  And he notices.  Of course he does, the asshole.

“What,” he sneers at you, “-not as easy when you can’t pretend I’m already dead?  Some hero.”

You know he’s making it easy for you, and you take the out.  You let yourself be angry for a moment, let your arm jerk forward, and sink the blade straight and pinpoint accurate between his ribs.

His head thunks back against the headboard and he hisses between his teeth.  He’s twitching all over, trying not to thrash like he did the first few times, and you do your best to appreciate it—but now that he’s awake this is harder.  He’s tensing up, getting defensive, god, he’s so _stubborn_ —

“Stop _fighting_ me—” You mutter, but he barely seems to hear you.  The last infection is putting up a fight, and he’s helping it, he is literally pushing you back out of him, shit— “—hey, clown—Gamzee!  Calm him down!”

He’s obviously not happy about that, although you can’t tell whether ‘that’ is you giving him orders, the fact that you’ve got a sword buried in his moirail’s chest, or the fact that he’s being asked to use their weird troll calming mojo to calm Karkat down so you can stab him better.  But he leans over Karkat, arching around your sword awkwardly, petting and shooshing and Karkat starts to go still.  That means his growls fade down to whimpers, weird, soft little whines, and it’s profoundly uncomfortable to listen to, but you just hold on to your sword and…

You pull the sword free and Karkat takes a huge gasp of air and _breathes._  

“Fucking hell,” you say, as he slumps back, panting—more for something to say than in reaction to anything.  “You okay, dude?”

“’ _Okay’_ —is a hell—of a word—” Karkat wheezes, and takes another long, deep breath.  “Strider, holy shit.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” you insist, and toss your hair like a pop queen (hell yeah).  “Just doing my duty.”  And then, because you’re still not sure how well it works on people who aren’t you, and because even though he’s breathing easier he looks like someone dropped him off a building a few times, “…you doing okay, dude?”

Gamzee growls at you for some reason—probably just because you’re still here and not doing anything to profit him.  Asshole.  Karkat paps him again, one of the harder ones that’s more like a _GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF_ slap than a pat, and Gamzee grumbles to himself and leaves you alone. 

“I’m fine,” says Karkat, and grabs Gamzee, rough but not like he’s mad, pulls him in and bumps Gamzee’s forehead against his temple.  Gamzee makes a weird little rattly noise and presses in closer, and you wonder if Karkat’s still feeling the heat and his… _boyfriend’s_ body temperature feels good (he’s cold as a goddamn corpse is what’s up).  Hell of a fever.  “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“You are _not fucking fine,_ ” says Gamzee.  His voice does that thing for a second where he’s having some serious problems getting his voice under control, but when Karkat winces at the half-yell Gamzee winces too and takes a breath.  “ _You weren’t fine,_ ” he says, quieter this time.  “… _motherfuckin’ humans and their bitch-ass hands all up on your business putting sickness in you like that—”_

“Gamzee if you turn this into some kind of _holy vendetta against the pestilence of the motherfucking star-monkeys_ I’m going to scream _so loud_ at you, you’ll—”  Karkat breaks off in a hacking cough.  Gamzee stares at him the whole time like one of those cats on the internet back on earth.  His pupils get _really fucking big_ when he’s focusing on shit, Jesus.  You almost expect him to start batting at Karkat’s horns and purring or some sickening shit. 

“Made you sick though.”  Gamzee’s eyes flick up to you, and his big dark pupils shrink freaky-fast, down to weird, sideways slits.  Like a goat’s eyes, you think maybe.  “ _Dirty fuckers._ ”

“Hey,” you say, keeping your voice flat but kind of pissed off because _come on,_ “—In the least ‘I wanna bone you’ way possible, since I know you guys are basically incapable of not assuming you’re getting hit on at all times: fuck you.”

Karkat, still coughing, holds up a decisive finger.  You both shut up.

“ _Gamzee,_ ” he says, when he’s done, and whaps Gamzee on the nose.  “They—khh—got sick too.  Could be an alternian virus for all we know, like you know anything about germs—you ignorant fuck.  You don’t even shower if I don’t drag you there myself.”

Gamzee subsides a little, looking mutinous, but doesn’t contest that point.  Karkat looks at you instead. 

“Dave,” he says, and you tense your muscles to keep yourself from shrinking a little at the sternness of his voice.  “—stop provoking my moirail.”

Holy shit, unfair.  You don’t open your mouth either, and you’d swear your face stays blank and cool as a goddamn cucumber, but Karkat must see something there because he gives you a Look with a capital L. 

“I’m not auspisticizing this,” he says sternly, and Gamzee chokes. 

“I _don’t want to bone your boyfriend!_ ”  Oops, shit, that kind of came out louder than you meant it to.  Fuck your Strider genetics, your face is going pink.  Either get it under control or abscond, Strider, come on.  Come _on._   You school your voice back into a sort of even drawl, but you can’t erase the dumb squawk that was in it for a second there.  Fuck.  “ _Not interested.”_

 _“_ And yet—lo and fucking behold, neither of you will stop shoving sand up each others’ nooks,” Karkat says, mock-philosophically, and takes another rattly breath to cough again.  “— _kh-hh_ —grow up.”

“Hey.”

Everybody in the room jumps, even you.  But it’s just…you, standing in the doorway, looking cool and smooth and just like you should look at all times because you _don’t do flustered._   It’s not a Strider emotion.  You’re not capable (allowed).  Flustered isn’t a word that would ever describe you, _ever._  

Fuck, you’re so goddamn flustered.

“Terezi’s gonna come in here,” says future Dave, and jerks his head at Gamzee and Karkat, who are still semi-cuddled on the oversized pillow/bed.  “…you’ll get to talk later, but he needs to get out of here.”

Gamzee makes an unreadable kind of noise under his breath.  Karkat swears quietly and turns back to him.  You turn away, and don’t listen to them at all.  ( _you okay now though, feeling better now?  Fuck best friend I thought—thought you were—_ )  Future Dave gives you a look that might be sympathy, without moving any part of his face at all.  You straighten your shades and cross your arms over your chest.  ( _shh, shoosh, I’ll find you as soon as I’m up, okay?  We’ll talk.  I fucking promise, can you keep it together until I can get there?_ ) 

“Nice weather we’re having,” deadpans future Dave.

“Only the finest in infinite starfields,” you say back on automatic ( _a brother’ll give it his best shot and all, get his motherfucking effort on—Karkat—_ )  “We are up to our balls in infinite starfields.  On your right you’ll see the constellation of _derpus egberticus_ doing his hero thing in the stars forever-fucking-more.”  ( _I know.  Fuck, I know.  Go on, get gone._ )  “How long am I here for, dude?”

He shrugs.  “Twenty-three minutes, sixteen seconds.  I’m gonna go bug Rose.  Get the clown out of here before Terezi has a bugtits shitfit.”

“Noted.”

He goes.  Behind you, Gamzee is proving difficult to shift; he’s holding on to Karkat and doesn’t seem to want to let go.  As you watch, Karkat sighs and pushes him away, and Gamzee unfolds up onto his feet. 

The club he tried to break your neck with is still on the ground by your feet.  You flick it up with one toe and snag it out of the air, and when you throw it at his face (so sue you if you’re not in a forgiving mood, fucker tried to kill you) he grabs it so fast you don’t see his arm move.  He gives you one of those freaky smiles too full of teeth.

“ _If he ain’t well when he comes to me,_ ” he says, but Karkat groans loud and obnoxious and flaps his hands angrily between you and he flicks his ears all disgruntled and turns back to the vent.  You can see all the skinny muscles in his arms work as he jumps, grabs the edge of it and pulls himself up and in in one fluid movement you did pull-ups most of your life to be capable of. 

There’s silence for a second, and then you rub your temples and turn back to Karkat.

“Okay bro,” you say, and give him the game-show-host dramatic point.  “Are _you_ ready to get cleaned up like some kind of weird pale twink in one of your weird virgin-porn videos?  No homo.”

When Terezi strides in five minutes later you’re nursing it up while Karkat bitches at you, and if when you were scrubbing the gross sweat and blood off him you avoided the little purple diamond smeared on his chest, that’s because you didn’t want him to yell at you.

 _Yeah,_ you figure, as Terezi dives on Karkat and plies him with fruity drinks and sticks her cold fingers in his neck to make him shriek and bat at her with his weak, rubbery-ass hands.  Somewhere up in the vent, something rattles and then fades away, off into the dark and the cold, and you watch Karkat look over Terezi’s shoulder at the metal vent for a second with a look on his face that makes something un-Striderly happen in the pit of your guts.  _Yeah.  Sounds about right._


End file.
